I looked around the room and saw Officer Crawford sitting on his own by the window, gazing up at the peak. Waiting for the real detectives so he could go home? I’m not sure. All the lights were on inside the dining hall, but with the rumbling sky it could have passed for early evening. Maybe he was watching the entry road, worried about getting stuck up here. I realised that he would be able to see the maintenance shed from his angle; he was keeping an eye on it. I felt chastened for not giving him enough credit. He was probably working through what Sofia had told him. I’d been thinking about it too, remembering the footprints, the way they darted in that small, square area: an invisible box. I now knew I was looking at the last movements of a burning man. A frantic dance back and forth, with no idea of direction, as he was engulfed in flames. And yet: not a drop of melted snow.

‘All I’m saying,’ Andy was enthusing to Katherine, interrupting my thoughts with his volume, ‘is that we now know from Bitcoin what to watch for. We’re not talking doubling or tripling like traditional stocks. It’s a real game changer.’ I noticed Sofia slide a piece of paper from her pocket, dash an X on it with a flourish, and shoot me a wink. I realised I hadn’t been keeping track of my own bingo card. I couldn’t cross off Lucy’s sales pitch because she was talking to Marcelo, not me. I could cross off the bottom-right square (Broken Bone OR Someone Dies) but decided it was tacky. To do it in front of people at least – I did want to win.

There was a pyramid of croissants in the middle of the table. Andy reached for one, but Katherine slapped his hand.

‘I washed my hands,’ he complained.

‘Some things don’t wash off.’ She wrapped a napkin around a pastry and dropped it onto his plate. He picked up his cutlery, sulking.

‘Don’t worry. He’ll get here before the storm,’ Marcelo said to Audrey, but our table was so starved of conversation that everyone’s ears pricked up at the opportunity. Even mine.

‘We’re staying?’ Lucy asked.

‘You think they clear the resort every time someone hits a tree on a black diamond run?’ Marcelo shook his head, matter-of-fact. ‘People die in nature. Without the right skills and knowledge . . . If you don’t respect the mountain, what do you expect?’ He shrugged, with the confidence of someone who believes if you’re successful in one thing, you’re successful in all things. I’d seen Marcelo scream at a teenager over froth on his latte: if he didn’t respect a barista, I doubted he respected a mountain.